Shorty who blew up his cousin? Hardly, since he didn’t seem to know about Bobo’s murder when he was brought in for questioning. I think we’re heading off on the wrong track. The Hell’s Angels, Bobo, and Shorty are a whole different case that we have to solve together with Narcotics. But in the von Knecht case we need a new angle. Let’s check all observations and witness statements one more time. If it really was Shorty who tossed von Knecht, somebody must have seen him. That guy doesn’t just melt into a crowd!”
Irene began to feel the churning sense of emptiness that always appears in a case that isn’t solved quickly. Check and double-check all the witness statements. And check again, if you don’t find anything new. A routine job. But that’s the way you solve crimes.
Fredrik started preparing for his presentation. He opened his notebook and coughed lightly before he began. “No one in the neighborhood says they noticed anyone suspicious on Tuesday evening. It was rainy and dark, of course, but it was only around five-thirty. No reports that anyone saw Shorty. He would have looked pretty disreputable in that neighborhood. Two meters tall and just as wide! Of course he looks disreputable wherever he is. But maybe we should ask around in the building one more time. Plus we can check up on whether Bobo was seen. He was almost as tall, but thin. Also somebody that people ought to remember.”
The superintendent nodded absentmindedly and sighed. “All right, go ahead and ask. Although I don’t think it’ll produce anything. But we should check. Maybe Bobo or Shorty threw von Knecht off the balcony. But there’s not a shred of evidence that Shorty had any contact with Richard von Knecht, or that they had ever met. And not a single rumor about drug deals around von Knecht. I find it hard to believe that Shorty and Bobo had started speculating in stocks!”
“You’ve got a point, Chief. But maybe we can pick up some new leads on Friday. Now that they’ve cleaned up the site, they can go into the building and start drilling von Knecht’s safe out of the wall. It’s hard because there’s a cellar under the building that they have to prop up from below. Otherwise they can’t bring in the telescopic boom and the standalone forklift. That’s heavy equipment and they don’t want it to fall into the cellar. It’ll probably take a day or two,” Fredrik concluded his report.
“Okay. Tommy, Fredrik, and Jonny will have to plan a strategy and question Shorty. Grill him! Skip the von Knecht stuff for now and concentrate on drugs and the Hell’s Angels. Birgitta, you haven’t found any connection between Shorty and that vice president. . what the hell kind of titles do these idiots give each other?”
“Vice President Glenn ‘Hoffa’ Stromberg. No, I haven’t found anything yet. As for titles, they have all sorts of different ranks. There’s one who’s responsible for weapons, another who makes sure that there’s always food and booze in the clubhouse, and so forth. Lowest in the hierarchy are the girls. They have no rank at all,” Birgitta said dryly.
Jonny sniggered and said, “A well-ordered society, where the chicks know their proper place and function!”
Andersson shot him a dark look, so he didn’t continue his exegesis of the social structure within the Hell’s Angels. Somewhere inside the superintendent a vague uneasiness arose that the old lady in Birgitta’s building could just as well have seen Jonny’s Volvo as Bobo’s Toyota. He firmly pushed those thoughts aside.
Birgitta clenched her jaws but ignored Jonny’s comment and continued unfazed, “We’ll find out more from the Narcs tomorrow. But I have to see if I can find the link between Shorty and Hoffa.”
Resolutely Andersson slapped his palm on the table. “All right, now we’re moving! If you find anything of interest, I’ll be here until this evening.”
They got up and went off to their respective tasks. Irene drew Tommy aside.
“Please come to dinner at six. Jenny will be home. And it’s perfectly safe since Krister’s in charge of the grub.”
IRENE WAS surprised that Sylvia von Knecht was home and answered the telephone. But Ivan Viktors had said that he was going back to Copenhagen on Sunday evening. Sylvia must not have wanted to stay alone out in Saro. Without any great enthusiasm, Sylvia agreed to let her come over and ask some questions at eleven.
Irene tried to start her report on what had happened in Billdal, but it was slow going. She called Krister and agreed to pick him up after she visited Jimmy. She drank the rest of the coffee in the thermos and looked outside. There was a break in the rain, and a pale sun seeped through the clouds. Six degrees Celsius. A regular heat wave, compared to the temperatures in recent weeks. She quickly decided to take a walk up to Molinsgatan. It would take exactly the half hour that was left until eleven if she walked slowly. She put on her leather jacket and went out.
TRAFFIC WAS heavy and the air thick with exhaust. The big soccer fields at Heden lay soggy and abandoned. She crossed Sodra Vagen and strolled up Kristinelundsgatan. A glance in the display windows of the exclusive boutiques reminded her that she had to buy a new jacket. She had already thrown out the one that had been pissed on in Billdal without even trying to have it cleaned. The leather one she had on now was too worn. Up on Kungsportsavenyn she stopped and looked in the window of KappAhl while she discreetly buttoned up her jacket. The last part of the way she cut across Vasaparken. Behind the university she saw a gang of youths. The tall boy in the middle of the group was black. Thick Rasta dreadlocks stuck out all around his head. Her heart skipped a beat. Was there some kind of abuse going on? But all was total harmony. Coolly and completely openly, the Rastaman handed over small plastic bags in exchange for wrinkled and sweaty bills from the youths. Ecstasy for the weekend’s rave, no doubt.
What was the difference between Bobo Torsson’s and the Rastaman’s dope dealing? The environment, she decided. Smoky nightclubs and trendy, hip spots don’t change the fact that it’s dope being bought and sold. And that the buyers are drug-dependent, though they all vehemently deny it. She looked at the kids with sorrow. Some tried it out of curiosity, got scared, and stopped. But many of them would end up addicted. Some would manage despite great pressure to break loose from their dependence. But all of them would be forced to live with the consequences of their addiction.
She memorized the appearance of the tall dealer so she could report him when she returned to headquarters. The Narcs’ street-dealer squad probably knew who he was.
SYLVIA VON Knecht was haggard. For the first time she looked her age. She was walking around in an enormous gray wool sweater, knit in a pretty cable pattern, and actually wearing blue jeans, which greatly surprised Irene. Apparently she still hadn’t managed to clean up after the technical examination of the apartment. Everything looked the same as it had when Irene was there before. Big flower bouquets with cards of condolence were placed randomly in the apartment. The heavy floral scent seemed to presage the upcoming funeral. The pleasant fragrance had a rank undertone; the water needed to be changed.
They went upstairs to the airy library and sat down on the leather sofa. Sylvia nervously bit a torn nail. She raised her face, which bore no makeup, and looking at Irene said in a thin voice, “Can you imagine? I miss him so much! Every time the phone rings or someone laughs down on the street, I think it’s him. Sometimes I imagine he’s going to walk through the door and laugh, pleased that he was able to fool everyone. I’m wearing his sweater. It smells like. . him.”
She sobbed and her curtain of hair fell across her face. Irene didn’t quite know how to approach the whole subject. How did things actually stand with Ivan Viktors? She decided to start with the keys.
“We found the key ring. And Pirjo,” she said by way of introduction.
The newspapers would be informed at the press conference later that afternoon that the victim on Berzeliigatan was Pirjo. They hadn’t mentioned it earlier, for “technical investigative reasons.”
Sylvia started and said sharply, “You found the key ring? Who had it?”
“It was sitting in the door at Berzeliigatan. The door to the office apartment.”
“Well, I never! Here I changed the lock on the apartment and spent more than two thousand kronor for nothing! Why couldn’t you have told me about this earlier? Thank God I didn’t bother changing them up at Karringnaset!”
“We weren’t completely sure that they were the right keys. . for technical investigative reasons.”
“And Pirjo! Where has that slob been hiding? I want her to come over here right away!”
“Sorry. She’s dead. She was blown up in the explosion on Berzeliigatan a week ago.”
It was cruel and brutally frank, but Irene wanted to see how Sylvia would react.
“You. . you’re lying. . it can’t be. .”
